


Everyone That You Left Behind

by tryslora



Series: Sing For All the Broken Things [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Human, Band Fic, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles heard Derek’s band was joining the festival he’s been touring with, but nothing quite prepares him for being up close and personal with his ex-bandmate and ex-boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone That You Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for prompt #22 - Broken at fullmoon_ficlet. Yes, I got in the mood to write a band!AU. The title is from the lyrics of MCR's "Sing". As always, I do not own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.
> 
> EDIT 2014-01-30: Adding to a series.

It’s hot as fuck in Hartford, and Stiles wishes it were raining. Not that rain’s good for equipment, but there are tarps to help with that, and a breeze would be nice. Not to mention that he wouldn’t mind standing out in a good downpour before he goes on stage, getting soaked and cooling down.

But no, it’s 94F in the shade with the heat index making it feel a good 10 degrees hotter. The first aid tent’s been busy all day treating teens (and adults) who have heat exhaustion, and Stiles has been drinking bottles of water in hopes to hydrate enough before it’s time to take the stage. He’s passed out on stage before, and it’s never a fun thing. Not to mention that he hates the way Lydia yells at him after, as if it’s his own fault that his pale skin turns red as a lobster in the sun and the heat dries him out like a desert.

 _Wear a shirt_ , she always says, and she never quite seems to get that drummers and heat and _shirts_ don’t make sense together. If Stiles could drum in the nude, he would, but then he’d get tossed out on his ass because this is a _family_ festival. So a pair of shorts (and nothing else) it is on days like this, along with copious amounts of sun screen.

He hides in the shade, avoiding the rest of the festival. Back when he first started out, years ago and in an entirely different band, he used to love walking through the crowds, curious if anyone would recognize him. But now, years into his career, it wears on him. He loves seeing fans smile, loves how they ask for his autograph and loves it even more when they tell him how much his lyrics have meant to their lives. But it’s exhausting.

There are reasons why he hides, reasons why he can’t go out this time.

Their slot begins at four in the afternoon, and he’s the first on the stage, giving a light rolling beat as Scott and Danny tune their instruments to each other. The crowd screams while they riff a bit, but it’s Jackson they are calling for; they go wild when he takes the stage.

The songs are hard and fast, Stiles’s hands moving in a blur over the drums. He stands sometimes behind his kit, his entire body working through each beat, and he hears them scream his name during a solo. He doubles his efforts then, giving them what they ask for, sweating and aching by the time he’s done.

He is lost in the fugue that is their music when they slow down, sliding into the last song like a respite, Jackson crooning out the lyrics of a love that wasn’t lost but discarded, given away in a moment of insanity. The audience sways, arms in the air, singing along with the chorus.

Stiles hears it then, one voice beneath the others, thick and slipping into his heart. He starts to sing, ignoring the looks Danny and Scott give him for breaking pattern. Jackson goes with it, jumping up onto the deck next to Stiles, leaning in, and they both finish the song out together, leaning in close.

It isn’t Jackson that he hears when the notes fade, but he feels the heat from Jackson’s body, the heaviness of the arm around his sweating shoulders, the press of lips against his cheek. He turns into that touch, Jackson’s hand sliding against his cheek, lips finding lips. For a moment it works, and Stiles loses himself in that kiss, in the way that they have ended every show since they came out three years ago. The crowd screams, and it’s his name as well as Jackson’s.  Even though he improvised the end of the show, he’s forgiven.

“Hey, dude.” Scott catches up as soon as they’re backstage. “Are you—”

“I need to go take a walk. I’ll be back, okay?” Stiles shrugs into a t-shirt—one of Jackson’s—and yanks on dry shorts before shoving his feet into flip-flops. He pulls a cap down on his head, tilting the brim low, but all his attempts at anonymity mean nothing as soon as he exits the back of their tent.

A hand grabs him roughly, fisted in the collar of his shirt, bringing him up against a hard body. Stiles smiles sadly. “Hey, Derek. Heard you guys were joining the tour.”

This close, he can smell Derek’s cologne, can tell that nothing has changed in the last five years. He can see the twitch in his jaw that betrays the way he wants to say something and won’t. Stiles won’t give him the chance to fuck him over, not again.

“Where’s Laura? Erica? Scott’ll be glad to see Isaac, I’m sure.” Stiles talks like it’s easy, like he’s not being held by the first guy he ever gave his heart to, and who ripped it in half before handing it back. “We should all get dinner tonight. Hang out. Jam. Make good where the public can see us.”

“You’re fucking kissing him on stage.”

Stiles laughs bitterly. “Nothing ever changes with you, does it? We’re together, Derek. We’ve been out for _three years_ , so yes, we kiss on stage. But five years ago? When we started talking about me doing a few songs for his band. _We weren’t doing anything_.” He remembers the accusations, remembers the fights, bitter and long. 

“You walked out on us.”

“Only after you’d broken up with me.” Stiles pats Derek’s cheek. “Only after you ripped me to shreds and left me broken and bleeding on the floor. Metaphorically speaking.” There’d never been any abuse, after all, only a sense of being run over by a steamroller when Derek broke his heart. “I walked out on _you_ , Derek, not the band. Who do you think’s been working with Erica on lyrics since then?”

Derek’s hand looses abruptly, and Stiles steps away, hands windmilling to keep his balance. He has to laugh at the expression on Derek’s face. “They didn’t tell you, did they?” His laugh grows. “You had no idea you’ve been singing my words. Oh, that is rich.” He frames Derek’s face with his hands, leaning in to whisper, “You’re as broken as I was, dude. Thing is, I left it behind. I’m better now.”

“You’re lying.”

Stiles flips him off as he walks away. He _is_ lying. He’ll never be over Derek, never forget that first love. Things may be good with Jackson, but it isn’t the same. There’s always a part of him that will be broken.

But he will never let Derek know that. Never.


End file.
